


Tastes Like Home

by RyeBread



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019, Amateur Cooking, Fluff, Friendly competition, M/M, Minor Kitchen Accidents, Semi-established relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22305454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyeBread/pseuds/RyeBread
Summary: Dorian is missing the food of his homeland and, after some gentle ribbing, decides to engage with the Bull in some friendly competition to recreate some treats from their respective homes.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 15
Kudos: 74
Collections: The Collected Fanfics for the Adoribull Reverse Bang 2019





	Tastes Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> This fic brought to you by [this](https://hattedhedgehog.tumblr.com/post/190327762922/my-entry-for-the-2019-adoribull-reverse-big-bang) beautiful art by @hattedhedgehog!

The proof is in the pudding, they say. Dorian allows the custard to slip off his spoon and back into the bowl where it rejoins the gelatinous puddle therein as though it had never parted. He shudders. The only proof he can find in Fereldan desserts is that they have no idea what a proper dessert is meant to entail. Dry cakes, sugary slop—there’s no artistry, no flair. He huffs, stirring the custard about with the back of his spoon. 

“If you’re just going to look at it, I’ll take it off your hands, Altus,” Krem says from across the table, snapping him out of his internal grousing. The Chargers were previously enveloped in conversation about their last gig, regaling their chief with their exploits while he and Dorian had been away with Sera and the Inquisitor. Evidently the story has finished. “Pass it here.”

Dorian slides it over without protest, “I can’t believe your tastes have adapted to these Southerners’ poor excuses for desserts. Their stews and cheeses I can almost forgive, Cremisius, but surely this is as much an affront to you as to me.”

“Aw, missing home?” Bull asks, just short of mockery.

“In this regard, I would say so. Back me up, Krem! Surely your distaste for our ex-countrymen hasn’t soured you on their secunda mensa.”

“I can’t say I miss it as much as you, though that might be due to me having a cake twice a year while you had it twice a day,” Krem says dryly. He tucks into the custard.

“Ugh, I know for a fact the soporati have as rich a culinary tradition as the magisters, someone had to make all their delicacies after all. You don’t miss the soft cheeses, the delicate pastries, the hint of sweetness layered with flavors other than egg yolk? Come now, Krem, don’t tell me you’ve gone wholly native.”

“Wow,” Krem says, “you really have no idea what being poor is like.”

Dorian falls into a sullen silence, though he’d never admit to such a lowly thing as brooding. He could commiserate with Josephine, but that would require leaving the warm tavern and hoping she has a moment to speak on, admittedly, trivial matters in her already limited free time. He could bother Vivienne, but that would inevitably turn from mutual distaste for Fereldan sensibilities into an argument over whether Orlais or Tevinter has the better cuisine. He jerks out of his thoughts for the second time in ten minutes when Bull jostles his shoulder.

"I thought woolgathering was beneath you," he laughs, the breadth of his smile distorts his face. Dorian can admit it's handsome. Endearing, even. He wouldn't have taken the man to bed if he had no redeemable physical features. Certainly not as frequently as he has now.

"Quiet contemplation isn't woolgathering, it's an important feature of an inquisitive mind," Dorian says, more by rote than self-defense. "In this case, contemplating whether the dullness of Fereldan food is a consequence of their boorish demeanors or the cause of it."

"I like it just fine," Bull says, emptying his bowl directly into his mouth. "It feels homey."

"Going native, too, are we? Or was that a Ben-Hassrath tactic--gorge yourself on the target's food to better understand their palates? Does that better allow you to determine which poisons will be undetectable in a given dish?" Dorian kicks himself, considering he was there when the dreadnaught went up in flames. And the days after.

"I'm not gorging," Bull rebuffs in mock-offense. "I'm a big man with huge muscles, I need all this just to keep myself fighting fit."

"Not touching the Ben-Hassrath comment?" Dorian asks, kicking himself again for not letting it lie. _Why am I like this._

"Trade secrets should stay secrets. You don't see me asking you if wearing half a tunic is important Altus training to better acclimate to the cold."

"I'll have you know that I've shivered four fewer times today than I did yesterday, so evidently it works," Dorian says, lifting his chin. "Honestly, how do you eat so much of this? Your insides must be stoppered worse than Cabot's pipe."

"First you're letting yourself daydream, now you're making toilet humor? Careful Dorian, looks like Ferelden really is rubbing off on you," Bull laughs. "Is it all the stew?"

"I know you've got to be missing some of the flavors of home, even if your people do drown out everything but heat," Dorian says, pointedly ignoring Bull's retort.

Bull shakes his head, "If you miss it so much, just requisition the materials from Josephine and make your own. Or is the little mage too good to cook for himself?"

"I'll have you know I spent plenty of time in the kitchens when I was younger, I could make anything given some time and ingredients and a little experimentation. I can call flames from thin air; calling heat from a pepper is child's play." 

\--

As it turns out, no child should attempt to call heat from a pepper and neither should most adults for that matter. Dorian is reeling from the burning in his eyes, stepping away from the counter, knife in one white-knuckled hand as he clenches his fist into an agonized ball while trying not to scream out. His molars click with the force of his clenched jaw, but he manages to get his breathing under control long enough to set the knife down and scramble about for a cloth and water. 

"Mr. Pavus?" 

Dorian spins, tears streaming from his eyes, no doubt heinously bloodshot, "Yes?"

The woman is of medium height, but broad as a dwarf, "Apologies, but you seemed to be having some troubles and-"

"No trouble," Dorian says, perhaps sharply. "I requisitioned these ingredients and I intend to see it through. If you would be so kind as to allow me my space in this endeavor?"

"... Of course." She turns and bustles off into the next room, allowing Dorian a precious moment alone to scramble for the water barrel and frantically douse his eyes with a ragged cloth. No matter how much he tries to flush them out, the burning doesn't stop, and in fact spreads to the rest of his face. He manages to comport himself well enough, discreetly dabbing at his eyes even as the liquid fire bores into his tear ducts while he tries to go back to cutting the peppers, but it's like trying to walk down a staircase after too much wine.

He's about to make his third attempts as a cut when he hears a pair of heavy foot falls behind him. Dorian turns, mindful of the knife, to face Bull who had gotten far too close before Dorian had noticed him. No doubt he could have gotten closer still had he wanted to. "Can I help you?" Dorian asks, voice strained.

"The pantry maid told me you were trying your best to blind yourself and weren't taking any help," Bull says, not bothering to hide a laugh as he looks at Dorian's inflamed face. 

"I can manage," Dorian says, smiling tightly. "Just a minor set-back."

"Dorian," Bull says, and it's the voice he uses in the field when he's trying to get him to take the last potion. Imploring, maybe. Caring certainly not.

"If you have a suggestion, I'm all ears," Dorian snaps in the closest approximation of a relent that he can manage in the situation. 

Rather than speak, Bull takes the cloth Dorian's been dabbing his eyes with from his vice-grip and dunks it into the bowl of milk one of the cooks had set aside to make that awful custard. Dorian starts to squawk in indignant protest when Bull unceremoniously slaps the dripping cloth over his face, milk getting into his hair and mustache, seeping into his collar; then the burning leaches away and his would-be tirade evaporates into a relieved whimper. Bull chuckles, patting his shoulders gently, "There you go, big guy."

"This is disgusting," Dorian mutters, posture sagging as the pain leaves his body. "I suppose I should thank you, though."

"Can't have you fighting blind because you were too stubborn to ask for help," Bull says, too chipper to be chiding. "What, exactly, were you trying to do with..." he pauses to sniff the air. "...I don't even know what those are."

"They're peppers," Dorian says dryly, holding the cloth to this face as Bull steps around him to examine his work station.

"Yeah, thanks," Bull says. Dorian hears him crunch down on one of them then cough, "Ooh, haha, wow! You got these from Josephine?"

"I asked if she could acquire some hot peppers so I could make harissa so we wouldn't have to suffer another salted, boiled chicken for dinner."

"You do know Josephine's tolerance for heat rivals a blacksmith's?"

"I'm rather aware now," Dorian says, finally taking the cloth off his face to get a look at Bull. "This is something of a fruitless exercise, then, isn't it?"

"You have my respect for continuing to cut these when your face looks like you walked into a beehive," Bull says. "Though I think maybe you should start sweet."

"Because I have such a honeyed tongue and temper?"

"You're marginally less likely to permanently injure yourself," Bull says. “Let’s see if I can sweet talk the pantry maid into giving us some flour and sugar. I think I remember something the tamassrans used to make.”  
  
“By all means, be my guest then. And while you’re at it, let them know they can stop hiding from me like I’m using herbs and spices as ritual components.”

“I’m pretty sure only half of them left out of fear, the rest fled the peppers,” Bull says, already heading toward the door. Before long, Bull’s being led by the hand to the baskets of flour by giggling maids and given pots, pans, and measuring equipment by blushing cooks. Dorian feels a cloud of jealousy roll over his mood. He’d had to all but beg for a knife and a bit of counter space; he’d even brought his own field mess kit to cook with. 

Bull sets to making something out of flour, water, and sugar. He’s funny when he’s concentrating, wholly concentrating, in that he loses some of that fine control over his face in favor of squinting and pursing his lips or chewing his tongue. It’s almost endearing enough to lighten Dorian’s demeanor. “Are you sure you don’t want any help?”  
  
“So you can take credit if it turns out well? Just take a seat and look pretty as I whip this up.”  
  
Dorian smirks, “Easy enough.”  
  
Bull gives him a ridiculous wink, then returns to scouring the kitchen for ingredients that are more than likely not there. After word gets out that Dorian’s been placated, the kitchen staff begins to creep back in to retrieve their bread from the ovens and resume stirring their various liquid meals in enormous pots. They give Dorian and Bull a wide berth, though the staff occasionally dips in to offer a suggestion. To his credit, Bull brushes them off as well, though more flirtatiously than he had Dorian. 

He gets a rough dough working between his uneven fingers, sticking under his short nails and gumming up as he rolls it out into a thick, sausage shape. He pinches off a dozen or so bits of dough, pokes a shallow hole into each, then sticks an entire dried date into each. He places them on a stone plate, and the whole thing goes into the oven. Dorian steps up to the counter to pick at the drying dough paste sitting in one of the bowls. “And this is supposed to be what exactly?”  
  
“A snack we used to get if we were good back in Par Vollen,” Bull says, washing his hands with a rag and water bowl. “I remember they had dates in them, and even if they don’t have exactly the same spices we did back home, improvising was one of my best skills. You’ll see.”  
  
Dorian nods, skeptical, “And your measurements certainly seemed… improvisational. I distinctly recall the house bakers at home were very precise about their ratios. Do you even know how long they need to cook?”

“Until they look done,” Bull says, putting his—admittedly expansive—back to Dorian in order to holler for someone to get him a bit of honey. Bull explains to Dorian how it should taste, how it has a crisp exterior with a soft filling and a blend of spices that he’s sure he’s managed to imitate with what’s available. The honey, he says, is for afterward, to coat them in a sweet syrup to offset the bite of spice. He opens the oven door half a dozen times to check their progress, prodding them with his finger. Eventually he decides that it’s good enough and pulls them out with a cloth-wrapped hand.

Bull’s attempt at whatever it was he thought he remembered is an unmitigated disaster. 

Dorian holds the undercooked dough on his tongue, shoving it into his cheek in order to speak. “Ah, I don’t mean to hurt your delicate feelings,” he says, “but excuse me.”  
  
Bull looks down at him, expression neutral as Dorian spits the wadded mess into one of the compost bins. “Thanks, Dorian.”  
  
“Have you tried it yourself?”  
  
“I’m sure it’s not that bad! Here,” he says, popping one of the treats into his mouth. He grimaces, but dutifully chews and swallows. “See?”  
  
“So you’ll be finishing the rest of it, then?” Dorian asks, gesturing to the plate of sad, misshapen pastry.  
  
Bull frowns. “I could…”  
  
“Give it to the rest of your crew and see what they think of it? I’m sorry to tell you that they have even less of a filter than I do. Lack of political training, I’m afraid. We’ll grade this one a failure and try again later?” Dorian upends the plate into the compost while Bull watches sadly. “Maybe more time in the oven and less honey dousing it next time.”  
  
“I didn’t _douse_ it in honey!”  
  
“Yes, you delicately drowned it. My mistake.” Dorian looks over the mess of bowls and flour. “If we’re going to get the hang of this we need to face our mistakes, Bull. Nobody learned anything from success.”  
  
“Words I never thought I’d hear from a Magister,” Bull digs, already in the process of clearing their kitchen space.  
  
Dorian allows the jab to wash over him, encouraged by the needling rather than hurt by it. “You know full well that my magical experiments were the foundation of my learning; and you know I’m not a Magister.”  
  
Bull shakes his head. “Alright, _Altus_ , what’s our plan of action?”  
  
“You’ll have to tell me, you know what it’s _supposed_ to taste like.”  
  
“We don’t have the right ingredients,” Bull says. “At home it was coarser, the dough didn’t fall apart like this. And the butter tastes different.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Oranges,” Bull says, after a moment. “They’re supposed to taste a little like oranges.”  
  
“Well, let’s start there, then.”  
  
“Oh no,” Bull says, “you don’t get out of your first attempt at making something, Mr. I spent time in the kitchens.”  
  
“Yes, well-”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“Well I’ll do my best,” Dorian says, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.  
  
“The implication being ‘better than yours?’”  
  
“Naturally.”

\----

By Dorian’s estimation, his attempt is better than Bull’s if only because his is fully cooked and it tastes… close? The pastry is tougher than he remembers, and the filling is rather pungent and a tad oversweet, but-  
  
“This tastes like beans and sugar,” Bull says. “And don’t get me wrong, I’ll eat it, but I’m also going to tell you: it tastes like beans and sugar.”  
  
“Yes, well, we don’t exactly have all the spices I would have in a Tevinter kitchen,” Dorian says, drawing himself up. “At least it isn’t undercooked.”  
  
“You fried them in oil, it’s not like it was hard,” Bull says. Dorian throws him a withering glare. “What? You can see when they’re cooked!”  
  
Dorian bites down on his retort, instead doing what he does best: thinking. “Well clearly I’ve the better grasp on this whole thing, so allow me to take the lead on requisitioning ingredients from Josephine—provided I can count on you for your share of funding this endeavor. As for you, I’m sure with your motley crew and information gathering skills you can figure out how to do better than whatever that was supposed to be.”

“Yeah yeah, just don’t get too big a head about it, you might start looking misproportioned.”

“As though I could ever be,” Dorian says, bustling to clean the space, carrying his bowls over to the basins to scrub them. He waves off one of the kitchen maids who comes to take them from him; he doesn’t need still more gossip about his privilege circling among the staff. 

Bull joins him, taking a rag to dry the bowls and utensils as Dorian finishes scrubbing them out. It’s hideously domestic of them, but it can’t be helped. Bull’s fingers touch his own in passing the last bowl, lingering if only because Dorian similarly lingers. He looks up at Bull to see the man smiling disarmingly and Dorian pulls away, leaving him to his work as he dries his hands on a damp towel. The kitchen is unbearably hot even by his standards, which is his excuse for scurrying off and into the halls before he has to over analyze anything about this new commitment with Bull. And it is a commitment, more than any prior activities they’ve shared if only because this one has been given words. Ugh.

——

The library nook is pleasantly empty at the middle hours of the night, lit only by Dorian’s candles and a single lantern. It’s wasteful, perhaps, but using magic for light strains both his eyes and his mana, so it’s a cost he’ll eat for an hour of accounting and quick research. There are more than a few books concerning cuisines among the hundreds upon hundred on the shelves, but they don’t help him in any of the ways that Dorian had hoped. They’re full of descriptions of the various foods of the courts of the multitudes of nations, but they don’t explain the process of creating them—or it they do, they don’t tell him how much is used or what, exactly, an ingredient is. They don’t even tell him how to maintain the oven temperature.

“They know from how long they’ve used them. Familiar fires that make a familiar flavor. Warm in the way they want. What warms you, Dorian?”  
  
Dorian drops the barrier he’d thrown up the moment Cole started speaking and turns on his heels, “Cole. What has you wandering my library?”  
  
The boy looks up and him with those heavy, watery eyes, “You were lost.”

“I could hardly be lost where I spend most of my time,” Dorian says, obfuscating Cole’s intent. “But you spend some time in the kitchens, I’ve heard, so perhaps your presence is serendipity indeed. You said they know from experience how to keep their ovens at the right temperature, but they must start somewhere, no?”

“From one to the other, watching, waiting and I was wrong Dorian; what wasn’t right, I meant who.”  
  
“Who?” Dorian asks. “Who what?”  
  
“Not what,” Cole says. “Who.”

“Now we’re talking in circles,” Dorian mutters.  
  
Cole doesn’t touch him, but his hand is flat just over Dorian’s chest, “Who keeps you warm the way you want?”  
  
Dorian gapes for a moment, stepping back and putting a hand over where Cole had gestured protectively. “Boundaries, Cole.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You were wanting and I thought… No. The people in the kitchens, they don’t check their ovens often, they trust them to do what they do well. Otherwise the bread falls.”  
  
Dorian considers the statement, weighing it with what he knows of heat and fire and also what became of Bull’s pastry with his constant opening of the oven door. “Of course, there needs to be a consistent temperature for the dough to rise. Every time the oven’s opened, it gets colder.”  
  
“A breeze through the chamber, shaking, shuddering. Collapse. ‘Give it to the Magister, he’ll complain about it anyway.’”  
  
Dorian frowns, casting a glance in the direction of the kitchens. “Oh those _bastards_ .”  
  
“They weren’t wrong though. It’s not your fault, either, Dorian. Bread is supposed to taste like home, but you don’t have a home anymore. Maybe you should make your own.”  
  
Dorian grits his teeth, “Bread or home?”  
  
Silence.  
  
Dorian looks about and finds only guttering candles and deep shadows among the shelves. “Cole? Where did you-? Never mind.”  
  
\----

Josephine looks at Dorian from across her clipboard, the ever present light at the top giving her eyes a flickering intensity as she asks, “A cookbook?”  
  
“Unusual, I’m sure, so far as requisitions go, but I am more than willing to pay for the inconvenience. We were particularly fortunate on our last expedition so I find myself with a bit more spending money than normal.” Dorian holds up a small purse and gives it a little shake. “I’m attempting to be more… proactive about my grievances with Fereldan cuisine.”  
  
“Is this related to your previous request for peppers?” Josephine asks, starting a new script with her quill. “Have you gone through them already?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Dorian says, and Josephine’s face is unreadable apart from the gentle smile. He’s lost to her at cards too often to take it for what it is. “I must admit, they were a bit intense for what I had imagined. This time I am going to request some citrus and spices from Tevinter, if possible. I know the supply lines south are difficult to manage, but surely there are imports from Tevinter to Orlais that can be bartered for.”  
  
“Not so simple as one might imagine, given tenuous truces between Orlais and Tevinter in regards to the Inquisition’s stance against Corypheus.” Josephine pauses with her quill just above the parchment. “From what I understand, given your requests, you intend to use the Inquisition’s kitchens to prepare unconventional dishes, yes?”  
  
“Given your undoubtedly refined tastes, you can sympathize with my position here among stews and hard cheeses, can’t you?” Dorian asks, pouting just so. 

Josephine’s smile widens by a small margin, “I can sympathize, Monsieur Pavus, so much so that rather than insist upon the requisition fee, I instead put forth that you make your payment in samples.”  
  
“Grown exhausted of your chocolate cache, have we?”  
  
“Never, but it doesn’t hurt to diversify. Are these terms sufficient?”  
  
“I think they’re agreeable,” Dorian says, then feels a rare pang of embarrassment. “Ah, I must warn you, neither myself nor Bull are particularly adept at this whole patissier business. You might suffer diminishing returns on this particular investment.”  
  
“Perhaps it will encourage your venture. A little debt helps keep the creative fires burning, I’ve heard.” Josephine resumes her writing. “Spices you had said; any in particular? Cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg… A blend? With your investment I’m sure we could do with some small imports, but I must warn you it will not be cheap and it will not be quick. Perhaps your experimentation with The Iron Bull can commence in the meanwhile.”  
  
“I trust your judgment, Ms. Montilyet,” Dorian says. “And I trust your discretion at how liberally you describe this alliance with Bull. We wouldn’t want rumors to spread.”

“Of course,” Josephine says, “my lips are sealed. Those of the kitchen staff, however…”

“Such things happen, I suppose,” Dorian says, quietly fuming. “I can’t imagine they have much else to fill their time with aside from cooking and idle gossip.”

She nods, “To your credit, they have found it endlessly cute that Bull designs to teach you how to cook.”

“Me?” Dorian splutters. “ _He_ teaches _me?_ Josephine, I won’t ask you to smother the scandal they’ve invented concerning my trysts—such things are unavoidable given my poise and features—but surely you must right such a grievous wrong as implying Bull has any such skill over myself that I am the student here.”

“My apologies for having assumed, Dorian,” Josephine says. “However, that you have elected to venture into this on equal terms is just as endearing, I fear.”

“We’ve found common ground in our intolerance for Fereldan cuisine, Josephine. That’s all.”

“Of course,” she says, leaving him with nothing to refute as she finds her next appointment. For a diplomat, she certainly has a way of finding just the right buttons to press to infuriate him. It can’t be helped, and she did agree to get those ingredients and the tools to use them, at least. 

He heads down the ramparts, enjoying the rare bout of warmth to be found at just the right hour of midday. The gardens are growing well, and the thought to appeal for a plot to grow kitchen herbs occurred to him, but they were overgrown with potion ingredients and medicinal herbs to the point that even Dorian felt it would be selfish to ask. His gaze travels across the grounds to the tavern. Still early to start drinking in earnest, though he could seek out a bit of lunch there. As he approaches, he recognizes the horned silhouette of the Bull near the shadowed corner of the wall. He’s talking to someone and, given he is looking slightly _up_ to do so, there’s only one person it could be. Sure enough, once Dorian dulls the angle in his walk to get a better view, Adaar is there, fully shadowed and leaning against the wall in front of Bull, their bulk not quite as impressive as his, but their height even more so. 

Dorian isn’t one to pry, or at least not where the inquisitor is concerned, so he tries not to read overmuch into the inquisitor’s posture—bent just so toward Bull, arms loosely crossed, shoulders relaxed. He’s heard the two of them talk, knows they’ve gone a few rounds in the hay so to speak. If the inquisitor is looking for another go around, Dorian isn’t one to judge. Then the posture shifts, Adaar rearing back and their laughter filling the courtyard. Bull to his credit, looks almost… embarrassed? That’s a new one. It’s a couple dozen more feet before Dorian is close enough to insert himself into the conversation, or to do so without having to shout awkwardly to them as he walks.  
  
“Share the joke?” Dorian asks, Adaar still chuffing with the aftermath of their bellowing laughter.

“Yes, Bull,” Adaar says, “tell Dorian your joke.”

“Hey now,” Bull says, balking, “this was asked in confidence!”  
  
Adaar smiles, their lips curling over sharp teeth in a way that has Dorian unsettled, but deeply curious. “I’ve heard you and Bull have been learning to cook.”  
  
“True,” Dorian says, looking at Bull suspiciously. “We’ve run into some difficulty in replicating some of our preferred dishes.”  
  
“Yeah, so, I figured since you grew up in a more, ah, intimate environment with your parents, you might have more hands-on experience with Qunari food,” Bull says to Adaar, posture stiff in the way he gets when he’s trying to retell a story to someone who was there when it happened. 

“Is _that_ why you asked me to cook makroud for you in private?” Adaar asks.  
  
Bull glares at Adaar for a moment before yelping at Dorian’s sharp jab to his ribs with two fingers. “Hey!”  
  
“You _asshole_ ,” Dorian snaps. “This was supposed to be a friendly competition and here you go cheating on the first day!”  
  
“We never established the rules,” Bull says, hands up defensively. “And I was just going to have Adaar make them so I could refamiliarize myself with how they’re supposed to look and taste. Then I would be better able to replicate it with you, Dorian.”  
  
“You are so full of _shit_ ,” Dorian says, fuming. “That settles it then; we cook together or not at all.”  
  
“We’re not always at Skyhold at the same time,” Bull complains. “It’s inefficient!”  
  
“You should’ve thought of that before you decided to rope someone as honest and forthright as our dear Inquisitor into your scheming.”  
  
Adaar rolls their eyes, but gives Dorian a pat on the shoulder as they make their leave. “I’ll be sure to let Cullen know you’ve reassessed your position on cheating.”  
  
“Why I never,” Dorian says. “Has Cullen been spreading vicious rumors about me again? I swear, he loses one game of chess and it’s the end of the world with that man.”  
  
“Easy there, big guy,” Bull says, “someone might believe you.”  
  
Dorian huffs, but drops the bluster. “Really, though, Bull. I strike up a gentleman’s agreement and the first thing you do is try to weasel your way out of it. One might start to think you didn’t want to spend time with me.”  
  
“We’ve spent plenty of time with each other,” Bull says. “Last night, this morning, two hours this morning even.”  
  
“Oh keep it in your oversized pants,” Dorian says, flushing. “Don’t read too much into that.”  
  
“Never,” Bull says, winking. Blinking. That infuriating gesture he has. “You’ll be happy to know that I _did_ try to do some plain old recon before I asked Adaar to make it for me, though. Seems the flour here really is different than the stuff from Par Vollen. The Vashoth in the Free Marches have their own version that works with the crops they can grow here and the Inquisitor is going to speak with some of the mercenary crews wandering about to acquire some.”

“Yes, well I did my own research and your own impatience had something to do with your last disaster as well. Open the oven too often and you cool it too low to cook through.” Dorian pulls a letter from his robe’s interior pocket. “I also spoke with our favorite diplomat concerning imports we’ll need. She’s agreed, though we’ll have to provide her samples of what we produce. In addition to the cost of materials, of course.”  
  
Bull hums in agreement, taking the parchment into the light to read. He whistles low, “Glad I’ve been spending light these past few weeks. Who knew oranges were so fucking expensive.”  
  
“Right? It almost makes me miss home and our gardens where I could just walk out and pick one fresh from the branches,” Dorian sighs. “Ah well, at least we’ll have them.”

“I’ve got training with the guys in an hour or so, but I could meet you in the kitchens at sundown if you’d like,” Bull offers. “Get started on learning the basics.”  
  
“I’ll pencil you in,” Dorian says, heading back inside. He has a few questions for the Inquisitor regarding those… Makroud he had called them? If he’s quick, he might catch up before they reach the war room to discuss something or other with Cullen. 

“See you then.”  
  
Dorian keeps his pace measured and calm until he’s certain he’s clear of Bull’s line of sight, not that he doesn’t appreciate Bull’s lingering gaze on his rear, but as he turns the corner into the halls he steps into what could be generously described as a jog. He blesses his status as a pariah for once as the various people who recognize him on sight clear out of his way, and if they’re muttering curses after him regarding his heritage, at least they’ve moved. Eventually he slides into one of the main rooms and spots the dark profile of Adaar lit by firelight and conversing with Varric. 

“Sparkler,” Varric calls, leaning around Adaar to get a look at him. “You look out of breath. Something you needed?”  
  
“Yes,” Dorian says, “but not from you, unfortunately. I beg pardon if I’m interrupting.”  
  
“Not at all,” Varric says, “I just caught the Inquisitor here as they were passing through, wanted to have a quick chat about.. Something. They’re all yours.”  
  
Adaar quirks a brow at Dorian, “Did you forget to tell me something all of five minutes ago?”

“Ah, no,” Dorian says. “Not so much forgot as decided to tell you in private.”

“Secrets and scandal?” Varric asks. “You can interrupt me for this any time.”  
  
“The only scandal is Bull’s cheating,” Dorian quips.  
  
“I didn’t know you two had decided to go exclusive,” Varric says. “Or is that where the miscommunication happened?”  
  
“Not cheated on me, you insufferable amateur author,” Dorian snaps. “Well, not like that. Cheated at our wager.”  
  
“Wager? You know I’m always down to place a bet, Sparkler. What kind of wager?”  
  
“The kind where you’re not involved,” Dorian says, turning to Adaar.  
  
“You wound me,” Varric says. “If it is such a big secret, though, I’ll leave you to it. Another time, Inquisitor.”  
  
“Have a good afternoon, Varric,” Adaar says before turning to Dorian. “What in the world has you so snappish? Surely Bull’s request didn’t catch you wholly off guard. He is a spy.”  
  
“Not in the least,” Dorian confirms. “What bothers me most is he thought of it first. However, he was right to come to you. I can’t say I know a great many Vashoth, and I noticed you didn’t say that you _couldn’t_ make that mak-makroud? Rather, you _wouldn’t_ make it for him. That implies that you can make it and have a rough idea of how. I’d bother you for help, if you could. A recipe, even? You have no idea how hard it is to find a half-way decent recipe book, and the one I requisitioned from Josephine was entirely Tevinter based. I’m half convinced the Qunari don’t write their recipes down.”  
  
“We don’t,” Adaar says. “At least, my mother and father didn’t. All they knew came from experience. In the Qun there is no need to write down a recipe as those outside the role will never need to know how to do something. Those in the role will teach those new to it. My refusal had two reasons. The first is that no matter how good I might be at making the makroud my parents taught me, it will never be what Bull remembers. He is Tal-Vashoth now and the food of his home is one more loss he will have to accept. Whatever he makes, from memory and practice, that will be his new normal. He must build that home for himself. The second is that I heard about your little competition and I would like to see him squirm.”

Dorian chuckles at the second, but feels a quiet throb of sympathy at the first statement. “I feel for him. We’re both exiles. It must be difficult.”  
  
“You’re not quite the same,” Adaar observes. “You can still return to Tevinter. You’re an assassination or three from returning home as the majority party leader, if I’m not mistaken.”  
  
“It’s not quite that simple,” Dorian protests. “Even if I do manage to-”  
  
“Peace, Dorian,” Adaar says, raising a hand. “I meant no offense. Just that you and Bull are on unequal footing in the recreation of your homes. The next time we are in Orlais, we might even find a Tevinter style bakery. Even if it is not to your exacting preferences, it will be similar. Bull’s loss is both fresher and more complete.”

Dorian, still raw at yet another highlight of his privilege, swallows around his flash of anger. “I understand what you mean. That just means I have all the more reason to tap your reservoir of knowledge, then. The more people working toward his goal, the better equipped Bull will be to find what he’s missing. So. Any tips?”  
  
Adaar thinks a moment, hand on their chin. “Bull seemed to believe you just put a date into the dough. You need to mash it with clove, cinnamon, and butter, then mix it with water into a paste and roll the dough around it. You might find some luck doing your own research among the other Vashoth mercenaries walking about.”  
  
“Is there a reason Bull won’t do that himself?”  
  
“They’re afraid of him,” Adaar says. “He was Ben-Hassrath, openly so. Even if they believe he has truly been expelled, which not all do, they know the stories. They know what he has done to them and theirs.”  
  
“So they would trust a Tevinter mage over a banished Qunari?” Dorian asks.  
  
“Evidently,” Adaar says. “I do.”  
  
“I’ll keep that one to myself,” Dorian says aloud.  
  
“I have been open about my distrust of the Bull,” Adaar says. “It was a… point of contention recently. I don’t want to speak of this further, but you are no secret keeper.”  
  
“Alright…”  
  
“Good luck to you, Dorian.” With that, Adaar puts their back to him. Dorian takes the hint and makes his exit from the room.

\-----

When Dorian arrives in the kitchens, Bull is already hard at work with the dough, a sack of flour at taking up most of the counter space. He acknowledges Dorian with a smile and a nod, then resumes concentration on getting the dough well worked. A metal pot is on the stove, which Dorian peers over. “Is that butter?”  
  
“Yep,” Bull says, reaching for a cup of water to pour over the floury mess in front of him. “Got a hint from Krem about it. He says the butter at home they melt and strain all the stuff on top out. Makes it taste more like butter or some shit.”

“Interesting,” Dorian says, shedding his outer robe to throw over the empty chair. “You know, I spoke with Adaar and some of the mercenaries about the makroud. They said around here they use a mix of flour from home and the flour here. It gives it a better texture, they said.”  
  
“Well, we don’t have any of the flour from their home, so I’m trying with just the flour here and I gotta say. Pretty bad.”  
  
“I’m sure you can make something,” Dorian says.  
  
Bull knocks his elbow against Dorian’s shoulder, “Aw, thanks for the vote of confidence, big guy.”  
  
“I’ve got to keep you in competitive form,” Dorian dismisses. “Now move over, you’re monopolizing all the counter space.”  
  
Round two is no more impressive than round one. Without the spices available, everything tastes bland. Then there’s the issue with dough consistency. And while Dorian can get the dough to fry in the oil, after one or two batches, the oil starts to smoke and fills the kitchen with an acrid smell. He does his best to waft it out the window, but he can feel the glares on the back of his neck. Bull steps up to him as he attempts to empty out the oil into the rubbish trench outside. “Doing alright there?”  
  
“Just another mistake in a slew of them,” Dorian mutters, careful not to splash it back onto himself as it pours over peels and pits. It dribbles the last few drops as Dorian gives it a shake before he rights it and starts back through the door, but halts when Bull puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yes?”  
  
“I just…” Bull starts. “You said you’d been talking to the Inquisitor.”  
  
“Yes, they gave me a few hints.”  
  
“Yeah. About makroud.”  
  
“Yes?” Dorian says, trying to get to the point.  
  
Bull nods, “That’s my dessert.”  
  
“So we’ve established, Bull. Am I to stand here with a hot pot in my hands until it heats through to cloth or are you going somewhere with this interrogation?”  
  
“Sorry,” Bull says, taking the pot into his bare hands without flinching. “Here. I just meant to say, uh, thanks.”  
  
Dorian shakes out his hands, the heat dissipating from his fingertips quickly. He’s always has a way with fire. “You’re welcome?”  
  
“It’s just that you seem to have put a lot of effort into something for me,” Bull says. “I know, I know. _Don’t read into it._ I just want to say that I appreciate it, you old softy.”  
  
“Feh,” Dorian dismisses, blushing. “If you really wanted to show your appreciation, you’d start helping me clean out these pots properly.”

\------

Dorian jumps when the pot spits at him, throwing up a quick barrier around his hands as the hot oil seeks out his bare skin like it’s alive. He would swear he’s suffered fewer burns on the battlefield than the kitchens. The Inquisitor should consider putting the cooks on the front lines against the Venatori given their apparently immunity to pain. He watched a maid drop a pot fresh off the fire, catch it by the handle, and put it back on the stove without so much as flinching. It’s been almost two weeks and Dorian can barely withstand a teensy spatter.

Bull opens the oven door behind him, prompting a chiding tsk from Dorian. He turns, “What?”  
  
“You’re not supposed to keep opening it,” Dorian reminds him. “It’s never going to bake.”  
  
“Well you’re supposed to keep watch on that oil, but you keep running from it scared. If you don’t watch it and keep the fire from burning too hot it’s going to smoke again and the staff’ll have our heads.”  
  
“Why don’t you keep watch over the oil and I’ll mind the oven for you, seeing as you’ve no fear of it blistering your skin despite you wearing no shirt.”

“Not the worst idea,” Bull admits. “When are your balls done?”

Dorian doesn’t rise to the bait. “Once they’re crispy and golden.”

“So how do you make these anyway? I got the gist of it from Krem, but you’ve kept the intricacies well hidden.”

“Can’t have you stealing Tevinter trade secrets, hm?” Dorian tries, but Bull’s tight smile catches him off-guard. _Well shit._ “Oh fine, you brute, don’t get pouty on me. It’s boorelu, and you make it by mashing up the chana dal with sugar until it’s a paste, batter it with urad dal and rice, then fry them.”  
  
“Chana dal… that’s uh… what do the Fereldan call them. Chickpeas, right?”

“Yes, these savages call them chickpeas,” Dorian says. “I haven’t found a proper replacement for them, so I’m glad we got the shipment of them when we did. And the urad dal, too. Rice we’ve got in abundance, but it looks… different.” Dorian runs his hand through the dry grains. They’re a different length and color than he’s used to, but when it’s ground up and mixed with the urad dal, the consistency of the batter looks about right. Better than when he was trying to use wheat flour. “I had to soak them since this morning, too. I never did appreciate how long these take to make.”  
  
“How’d you figure it out?” Bull asks, fishing out the lumps of dough with a slotted spoon. 

“Linde, one of the cooks, suggested it when I was having trouble trying to boil them soft the other day.” Dorian turn to the makroud dough still on the counter top. “How has that date paste been working out for you?”  
  
“Oh you know, it’s dates,” Bull says, plopping another few burelu into the pot.  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” Bull admits. “Adaar said to mash them up with cloves and cinnamon and orange water, but it’s… not right.”  
  
“Let me try,” Dorian says, taking a spoonful and dropping it into his mouth. He has to spit it out almost immediately. “Vishante kaffas, Bull, how much spice are you putting in this?”  
  
“Not much,” Bull says. “A handful of each?”  
  
“With _your_ hands? Bull use a spoon, these were expensive!” Dorian snaps. He takes a portion of the paste Bull’s made and adds it back to the mortar and pestle, adding dried dates and orange water as he goes. He tries a bit every few minutes, adding Bull’s incredibly overseasoned paste or more dates and water until he has something actually edible and—in his opinion—rather tasty. “Now, what do I do once I have the paste?”  
  
“Roll it out like a noodle,” Bull says, the absent tone in his voice making Dorian look up. He’s mashing the soaked chana dal and sugar together with a bit of parchment in his hand, trying and failing to be stealthy as his singular eye is completely absorbed in the task of reading over making sure Dorian doesn’t see him.  
  
“Are we going to share with the class?” Dorian asks sharply, stomping over to him and pulling his arm down to see the paper. Bull, apparently feeling generous, lowers his arm enough for Dorian to peer at it. It’s scrawled, barely legible really, but quite clearly a set of instructions. “What’s this?”  
  
“Uh, Krem gave me a few tips.” Bull looks positively abashed, a light flush barely visible on his cheeks.  
  
“Are you embarrassed?” Dorian asks. “Going through that trouble for me, I might start to think you care about me.”  
  
“I do,” Bull says, firmly.

“You do,” Dorian repeats, pausing at Bull’s side.  
  
“Of course I do,” Bull says. “That can’t come as a surprise to you.”  
  
“Well. I… care about you, too, Bull.” Dorian manages, walking back to his side of the counter to continue rolling out the dough. “After all, I can’t exactly take a sword hit like you can.”  
  
“Mm,” Bull says. “You are pretty squishy.”  
  
“I most certainly am not,” Dorian protests. “Though if we keep this up, I might be,” he adds as an afterthought, popping a piece of uncooked dough into his mouth.

“Yes, well, squishy or not, I know you’re sweet on me, too,” Bull says. “I doubt you’d go out of your way to learn how to make a dessert for just anyone.”  
  
“You were hopelessly lost,” Dorian says, “I couldn’t stand to see someone struggle so.”  
  
“I’ve had you pinned for a while, Dorian.”  
  
“Not since last night, if memory serves.”  
  
“See, you’re even making sex jokes around me!” Bull says. “Just admit it, you old fop, you like me.”  
  
“Oh do shut up and try this before I hit you upside the head,” Dorian says, holding up a spoonful of paste. 

“Mm,” Bull hums around the spoon. He follows Dorian’s hand as he pulls away,releasing him once he’s down to eye level. He leans in a bit more, eye alight with what can only be affection. “Now how did you make that so good?“

“Trial and error,” Dorian says, breathless though he wouldn’t admit it. “Like the entirety of our… whatever this is..”

“Are we in the error stage of your baking then?” Bull asks, rearing back up and sniffing.

Dorian spins around, spotting a steady stream of black smoke pour out the side of the oven. “Fest is bei umo canavaram, you distracted me!”

“You’re distraction worthy,” Bull says, turning back to the oil pot to manage the heat beneath it. “What’s the damage?”

Dorian tosses the charred bits of pastry into the bin, acrid smoke still filling the air. “This is a disaster. Well, at least those were yours.”

“Are you going to put in your batch, then?”

Dorian looks down at the log of pastry and filling he’s made, then back to the oven. “Until it airs out a bit, I think it would smoke up any flavor these might have.”

“You’ve got time,” Bull says, turning back to the burelu. He’s begun making his own now, Dorian’s neatly set aside in a plate and covered in a cloth to keep them warm. “Come sit here looking pretty as I finish these.”

“Yes, just sit next to that vat of boiling pain. No, I’m alright over here,” Dorian says, setting to cutting the pastry into even shapes with the freshly sharpened knife. 

As Bull returns to his mixing, Dorian considers what Adaar has said, then looks back to the pot of oil. He’s always been a fan of experimentation. With the raw makroud on the cutting board, he sidesteps Bull who grunts, “Hey, I thought you were going to stay over there.”

“Change of plans,” Dorian says, tipping a handful of the square pieces into the pot.

“Wait,” Bull says, almost forlorn, “you’re supposed to bake those…”

“ _Supposed to._ Bah, this is about making it your own,” Dorian says, smiling despite himself. “We’re already flying by the seats of our pants-“

“You’re not wearing pants,” Bull grouses.

Dorian gives him a dry look, “Just let me try it and if you hate it we can do it your way.”

Bull frowns, but his mouth is contorted the way it gets when he actually wants to smile. When did Dorian get used to reading that expression? When did Bull relent on hiding it better? Dorian turns to the oil, scooping the browned pastry out with a fork. Bull taps his shoulder, “Honey and orange.”

Dorian follows Bill’s gesture to the bowl of water, honey, and cinnamon to be used as a glaze sitting on the end of the table. “I suppose we can’t stray too far.”

Without retort, Bull resumes battering the burelu. Dorian shrugs and lightly paints the crisp squares with the glaze until they shine in the late afternoon sun. He lifts one on the fork, examining it carefully before taking it in his hand and offering it to Bull who, despite being in the middle of extracting an errant ball from the oil, opens his mouth wide. He chews thoughtfully, noisily, and closes his eye as he swallows. “That’s really good,” he admits.

“Just like tama used to make?” Dorian asks.

“No,” Bull says. “But it does taste like home.”

**Author's Note:**

> It was a lot of fun writing this fic, and the food choices were some that would have never occurred to me on my own so I am so grateful for the collab!


End file.
